Cantus Firmus
by Genius Detective L
Summary: A collection of short pieces delving into the backgrounds of various DN characters, so that my co-writer and I can share our head-canon for Furious Angels and other fics. So far, dealing with L's past with Wammy, Ruvie, B, and A.
1. Tintinnabulum

**Author's****Note:** I couldn't resist having a go at writing some of L's back-story, and it will probably grow into the back-story for other characters as well. This is so my co-writer and I can have shared head canon for our Furious Angels AU (and likely anything else we write for Death Note), hence it being posted here. Any events we think of for this will be posted here as written - we currently have a few more in mind - so they may not be in chronological order. But this is definitely the start.

Cantus firmus: a pre-existing melody forming the basis of a polyphonic composition. (According to Wikipedia.)

This chapter is named for the song _Tintinnabulum_by Adiemus. There's bells, as well as a kind of industrious questing feel to the piece.

* * *

><p><strong>Cantus Firmus<strong>

**Part One: Tintinnabulum**

In which one Quillsh Wammy discovers a new purpose in life.

* * *

><p>Quillsh Wammy was an inventor of note, and one of the more notable things about him was how prolific he was. Barely a month went by that he could not be found at the patent office in the city closest to the estate that had been one of his earliest purchases.<p>

The inventor was all of a block away from the government building that housed the patent office, having just left. Three feet from his poorly parked sedan, the ground itself seemed to jump, the air striking him with what it took him a moment to realize was an explosion. By the time he gained his knees and could peer over the back of the car behind his, the sounds of stone grinding on stone and metal and glass were nearly finished. The outcry of human voices had just begun.

The building he'd just left was in ruins, fire and sparks and dust and smoke clogging the air.

Quillsh Wammy felt himself no hero, but did feel himself to be entirely human. Being uninjured, he stepped out from behind the row of cars and made his way toward the destruction, seeking out the voices in the debris.

"Hello!" He called out as he stumbled forward, coughing when the smoke and dust became too thick. "Call out, I can try to help!"

There was nothing. A few people ran by, a man half-dragging a woman with a bleeding gash in her leg, a few of the front desk clerks. The explosion must have been on an upper storey. It was the third such attack in the city in the past month - even though security had already been tightened and the police had announced the capture of a suspect after the second.

Wammy paused as the breeze rolled away the curtain of smoke and he caught a good look at the front of the building. There wasn't much left of it. Some of the papers that fluttered down through the air were on fire, and he could barely breathe for the scents of smoke and several kinds of dust, most of which probably shouldn't be breathed. And blood. Oh god he could smell blood and -

Gas. Gasoline. There had been cars in the street. Parts of the building had fallen that way, and the cars must be damaged. On top of that, there was likely natural gas leaking from the building now.

It wasn't safe here. He could hear sirens; crews equipped to deal with these dangers were on the way. He should get out of the way. Wammy turned -

The smoke cleared just enough for him to see that he was standing a few feet away from a car half-buried by debris. The front was utterly crushed, as far back as the front seats. That explained the gasoline and blood smells. Wammy gritted his teeth, resolving not to dwell on the thought of what had happened to the driver and passenger, and moved to turn away.

There was something in the back seat. Someone. A small child, dark-haired and still as stone.

The sense of urgency that had faded at the sound of approaching authorities returned twice fold. Wammy immediately reached for the door, all too aware of the scent of gasoline and the sparking of wires nearby. "Hello!" he cried, pounding on the still-sealed window. "You, b-boy! You have to get out of there!"

The child slowly turned his head. His eyes seemed far too large, even for such a young child. He neither cried nor spoke, his pale lips set in a thin, small line. There was a large envelope of some sort in his lap, and he held it with both hands.

The door was dented and wouldn't open; Wammy cast about for a moment, then snatched up a length of pipe and struck at the window until it shattered, and quickly knocked clear the glass about the edges. "Come on, boy, before it catches fire!" He reached inside.

Strangely unhurried, the boy handed him the envelope, then reached down to undo his seatbelt.

All Wammy could hear was the sparking of downed wires and the trickle of gasoline. "Hurry!"

The child took his hand and crawled half out of the window before Wammy lost patience and simply grabbed him, dragging him the rest of the way. Between the adrenalin and the boy's size, he seemed to weigh nothing, and Wammy managed to run a block away and around a corner before finally slowing and setting him down.

Behind them, something finally caught. Fire roared to life, and the people - so many people all around, suddenly - all cried out again.

Pressed against the side of a building, Wammy thought of what an illusion the solid brick protection was. "It's the war all over again," he breathed aloud; he could all too clearly remember the blitz of the second world war, filled with the same scents and cries - only now the people ran toward the disaster, not away, not to safety. He hadn't been any older than the boy he'd just rescued when his mother had lifted him up and set him on the train to the countryside with a tag around his neck saying where he was to go, and then she'd stood on the platform waving goodbye, and that was the last he'd ever seen of her. He'd still been living in the attic of a farmhouse the next year when he'd received word of his soldier-father's death...

"He wants it to be a war," the little boy said clearly, his English slightly accented with something - French, or perhaps Welsh. Or perhaps he merely had some developmental speech issue, Wammy thought distractedly, before he quite realized what had been said.

"Pardon?"

"He wants it to be a war. But it is not. It is only him." The boy reached up and pulled at the manila envelope, which Wammy belatedly realized he still held tucked under his arm, and forgot to ask what the child was talking about. "Where is the police station?" the boy asked, holding the envelope up before him in both hands again - not hugging it, but rather as though it were a shield.

Of course. The boy would need to contact his... remaining family, Wammy thought, almost guiltily realizing that it was likely his parents who had been in the car. The child had probably seen them die. At least it had been quick.

"Th-this way," Wammy said with a small, tight smile, laying his hand on the child's back to guide him. "I'll take you."

"It is not necessary."

Wammy blinked. "I'd rather see you safe." The child's articulation was beginning to strike him as odd; he couldn't be more than five years old. Six, if he were simply small, but not more than that.

The boy raised the envelope a little so that it hid his mouth, staring up at him. After only a moment, he glanced away. "Very well."

The police station was no better than outside - masses of people rushed back and forth, the telephones were ringing more quickly than they could be answered, and everyone seemed to be shouting. Some poor secretary shouted as someone bumped into her and she dropped a large stack of papers. The papers scattered, and a few others fell, slipping on them.

Wammy looked down at the boy and reached to take his hand. "It might be best if we wait a bit," he said, pushing his glasses up his nose a little with his other hand - he was sweating, and they were slipping, and that did nothing to reduce the sense of chaos. "Off to the side?"

The boy followed his suggestion and tugging, and they managed to find a bare space of wall in the lobby, where they stood patiently, waiting for an opportunity to approach the desk. The silence between them - the only lack of sound in the room, it seemed - stretched on for many minutes.

"Well, this does seem as though it will take a while," Wammy finally said, looking down at the boy again. "My name is Quillsh. What's yours?"

The boy looked about the chaos as though hoping for some immediate escape or attention, but did not pull his small hand away from Wammy's. "L," he said, after a moment.

"El?" Wammy smiled. "One of the earliest names for God. Your parents are ambitious."

He regretted the joke immediately; the boy looked up at him, still oddly expressionless. "My parents are dead."

"That too," Wammy muttered, shoulders sagging.

It was another hour before things settled enough that they could even take seats to wait in. Wammy sat down tiredly, and L crouched with his feet on his seat, still clutching the envelope. Wammy had long since given up on trying to hold a conversation with the boy - he seemed perfectly capable, only reluctant, which was no surprise given that he was (Wammy now realized) severely traumatized. It surprised him a little that the child did not seek closeness in any way, but it wasn't as though he actually knew L, so he did not press the matter. But he did remember a peppermint left in his pocket left from a recent restaurant dinner, which the boy accepted when offered, and after that Wammy thought there might be less tension between them.

"What is in your envelope?" the inventor finally couldn't help but ask, after observing the way the child so carefully held it for so long.

"It is information for the chief of police." L did not look up as he spoke - unruly hair hiding his eyes - and Wammy thought he knew why as the boy continued. "My father was bringing it here."

A few more hours, and finally they were able to approach the front desk. Wammy was about to introduce the boy and explain his circumstance, but L cut him off, setting the envelope on the counter in front of the secretary. "This is for the chief of police," he announced clearly.

The woman raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid he's very busy today," she said in a patronizing tone that made Wammy scowl.

"It's from the boy's father," he said, drawing the woman's attention. "Who died in the explosion. It's vitally important that it reach the chief of police."

L abruptly looked up at Wammy, but with how wide he kept his eyes, it was difficult to tell if he was shocked or not.

"Oh." The woman scowled right back, but took the envelope and added it to a stack on the corner of the desk. "Will that be all?"

Her attitude seemed intolerable; did she not realize what he'd just said? "The boy needs to contact his family, do you understand? The explosion-"

"Sir, if you don't lower your voice-"

"Forgive me, but-"

"You'll need to go back out to where emergency services are set up. We're not prepared to deal with this here."

Wammy led L from the lobby and into the still-crowded hall. "I'm sorry," he found himself saying, though he didn't look down. "Not surprising to easily become emotional after today's events, I suppose..."

"Quillsh is very kind to help," the boy said so softly that Wammy nearly didn't hear.

At that, the inventor did look down, as they paused on the steps of the police station. "I'm glad to be of any help I can, El," he said sincerely. "When I was your age, something similar happened to me. I'd hoped that the world might have outgrown this sort of thing..."

It hadn't, and he knew that; he'd only let himself ignore that fact for far too long. But what could he do about it, after all?

L eventually tugged on his hand, and he realized that he'd been staring without seeing at the pavement for a few minutes, it seemed, and the child had only been staring at him. "I see my aunt," the boy said quickly, pulling his hand free.

"Oh?" Wammy raised his head. "Wait, I'd like to -"

"Do not worry," L said, taking a step back. "I will find my way home."

"Wait -"

But the little boy was already well out of earshot. Wammy saw him run up to a woman a few hundred feet away; she reacted with surprise, but smiled, and took his hand, and led him away.

* * *

><p>When Wammy returned home to his estate that evening, it took a full two hours to explain to Ruvie why he'd not called. Ruvie had seen the news and had been, Wammy surmised, terrified, if the angry speech he received was any indication. It took until well after dinner before he'd convinced his housemate of the full chaos of the situation and his concern for the boy he'd rescued.<p>

"Of course I'm glad that he saw his aunt and that he still has family," Wammy finished, "But I rather wish I'd gotten to say goodbye. Perhaps I can find him again. I'm sure his family could use some monetary help, given the circumstances."

Ruvie snorted. "You always were the sort to get into other peoples' business."

"Oh come now." Wammy waved a hand in minor exasperation. "We've certainly the means. What good is it if we do nothing with it?"

"Where does one stop giving, then?" Ruvie countered. "Help one victim, why not help all of them? How would you justify doing otherwise? It's a quick tumble into poverty from there, I assure you."

"We've both been there." Wammy shrugged with the air of someone unafraid to face such a circumstance again.

"The idea is to not be there again. Quillsh, it's important to consider things carefully. Don't do something dreadful just because of what happened today."

"I wouldn't call it dreadful," Wammy said quietly, but the conversation was over.

* * *

><p>A week later, there was another bombing - but three days after that, there was an announcement. Obviously the first suspect captured, while a madman, was innocent of the bombings - but they would now cease, for the true culprit had been captured. His name had been handed to the police in a file from a hitherto unknown private detective known only as "L", who had left no contact information, only the file that had mysteriously appeared on the police chief's desk.<p>

Wammy knocked over his chair in his haste to rise, babbling to Ruvie about the boy he'd rescued again. "The envelope from his father! He even told me his name was L, I thought he meant the Hebrew word..."

This time Ruvie could only roll his eyes. It seemed this new obsession would be inescapable.

So that day, Wammy set out to find the child.

And there he encountered a problem. There was no record of him in emergency services, given that he'd left with his aunt, and the city was too large to simply find the woman. Wammy soon found himself in the city library pouring over records of the third bombing - lists of the dead and injured, newspaper articles, anything he could find.

"But how can I even go to anyone saying 'I need to find the son of the people that died in this place on this date?' That's all I really know," Wammy sighed into his tea, sitting across the table from Ruvie. "There's a record of two crushed bodies found in a car that burned, and I believe it was in the proper location, but there was nothing left to identify them by. They were never claimed. I don't understand why the family wouldn't come for them..."

Ruvie had no response, other than to pour his friend another cup of tea.

It was only luck that allowed any progress. It was two months later that Wammy was in the area of the bombing again, delivering another patent to the relocated office down the street. He stopped in a coffee shop in the building next door, only to find himself greeted by the woman that had led the boy away.

She must have thought that he was having some kind of fit, from the way he sputtered at her before he could find words. "You're L's aunt! Is he doing all right? He went over to you so fast that I hadn't the chance to say anything!"

If she'd thought him having a fit before, her expression now said she thought him addled. "I'm sorry?"

"The boy! L!"

"Sir, I've no idea what you're talking about -"

"He lost his parents in the bombing, the third one -"

The woman's face suddenly lit up. "Oh! Little boy, five or six, black hair!"

"Yes!" Wammy exclaimed, elated at the recognition - but increasingly concerned.

"I remember! Was he your boy? Oh goodness..."

She'd no idea who he was. He'd asked her if she could lead him to a restroom and she'd never seen him again.

Wammy entirely forgot about why he'd entered the coffee shop, thanked the woman for her time, and left.

"So the boy lied to you," Ruvie sighed when Wammy related the incident in the sitting room that evening. "He obviously doesn't want to be found, Quillsh. Stop obsessing and move on."

"You don't understand," Wammy exclaimed, raising his voice a little. "His parents are dead and he said he'd find his own way home. He's out there somewhere by himself, Roger! At his age! Who knows what could happen to him!"

"Quillsh!"

"What would you have done if you lost your parents at that age and had nobody to take you in? That nearly happened to me -"

"I'd have found a museum with a nice entomology department and tried to live there. It'd have been quite nice until someone hauled me off to an orphanage."

Wammy stopped cold and stared, snapping his mouth shut - and a smile bloomed on his face like spring after a long winter. "Roger, you are a genius."

By contrast, Ruvie's expression froze over. "No. No, I am not. Quillsh, you wouldn't."

"I would. Neither of us is immortal."

"I am. Completely." Ruvie was beginning to look ill.

"And it's not as though either of us is likely to have children, unless you're planning on becoming pregnant yourself."

"You'd be more likely." The other man outright glowered, but the anger didn't last, quickly erased again by despair.

Wammy went on as if he hadn't heard the comment. "Besides, if his father was this detective that solved the bombing case, we owe that man for his sacrifice, don't we? The city owes him but we're the ones with the means and the information to actually _do_ something..."

"That doesn't mean you have to -"

"I am going to find that child," Wammy announced triumphantly. "And if he truly has no other family who'll take him in, I'll adopt him. I'll start asking about orphanages in the morning."

"I detest children." Ruvie huddled in his robe as though trying to hide from the inevitable horror presented. "This is the beginning of the end, Quillsh. Next it will be 'well he wasn't here but I found this wonderful boy and he was so unhappy' and after that it will be 'but we have so much room, it's a shame not to' and in twenty years the house will be full of squalling brats."

"Oh, don't worry so." Wammy settled into a chair - he'd been pacing - and picked up his newspaper. "We'll hire people to mind them."

Ruvie covered his face with his hands and may have wept.

* * *

><p>Months passed, however, and there were no leads. No orphanage in the area had even a record of a well-spoken, possibly accented boy with dark hair being brought to them within the given time frame, and foster programs had no leads, either. Wammy cast his net further and further, on the supposition that, based on the boy's accent, his family might have been visiting the area at the time (though there were far too many hotel rooms and vacation houses abandoned after each of the bombings to trace anything that way). But he never found so much as a whisper of anyone even remembering such a boy.<p>

In the end he'd promised Ruvie that he wouldn't bring home every stray he met in this effort, but the further he went, the more wearing the experience became. There were so many children that needed so much more than the institutions that housed them could provide.

Donating was, Wammy found, a wonderful way to encourage orphanages to pass along information to him.

Eight months after meeting the child, however, something else happened that provided a possible lead: another mystery was solved by the detective L. A string of bank robberies in Germany were brought to a halt by a similarly mysterious file, this one (Wammy discovered upon investigation) mailed from a town in France. There was no information available there, however - there had been no return address, and no one in the postal offices in that town remembered such a boy. It hardly mattered - the town was a train stop, so needn't indicate a place to search at all.

But it did serve to convince Wammy of three things: that he must widen his search to include mainland Europe; that the boy did not want to be found; and that the strange child might actually _be_ the detective L.

Ruvie assured him that he was quite insane at that point.

* * *

><p>"There is nothing worse," the sister that led Wammy down a dim sterile hallway said, "Than a child that believes himself to be intelligent."<p>

The wrinkles around the woman's mouth said that she rarely smiled - rather perpetually scowled - and her eyes seemed permanently narrowed. Between that and her attitude toward children - treating them as prisoners, so far as Wammy could discern - he'd developed an intense dislike for the woman within the first twenty minutes of interacting with her.

It had been nearly two years since he'd met the child, and Wammy had refused to give up his search, despite Ruvie's frequent attempts to dissuade him. Visiting orphanages had only reaffirmed to Wammy the need to find the boy, rather than the repeated failure to do so causing despair. While many such institutions were perfectly fine, he couldn't bear to imagine the owl-eyed boy in a place such as this, where his articulate speech alone might get him disciplined.

"This one was brought in a few months ago. He'd somehow set up a bank account and had his own apartment and utilities and grocery delivery automatically paid from it, can you imagine? We don't know if he ran away from home or was abandoned or if his family died. I wouldn't be surprised if the disrespectful creature was cast out, but he does match your description. We call him Jean."

"Jean?"

"He will not give us his name."

She slid open a small, screened window in the door of what seemed suspiciously like a cell. The building had once been an asylum, part of a hospital complex, now an orphanage attended to by a group of nuns. The religious paintings and statuettes did nothing to convince Wammy of the wholesomeness of the place when the "problem" children were still kept in cells such as this.

"He makes it a practice to skip mass; we keep finding him in the clock tower," the sister explained, her French accent only slight. "Sister Marie nearly had her hand crushed in the gears trying to get him out. He's been whipped for it but only does it again. Some sort of learning disability, I fear. And he refuses to eat anything but sweets. Had his own groceries delivered and that was all he ever had them bring; that's what put people on to him." She wrinkled her nose. "Willful little thing. The ones like him usually go straight from here to a prison when they're old enough, if you take my meaning. Or to a proper mental hospital."

She stepped aside, and Wammy peered through the window.

It was December, dark and raining outside even this early in the evening. He couldn't see anything at first but the shadow of branches high on the wall, waving in the breeze outside. Then he began to discern the splintering hardwood of the floor and the flaking paint on the walls and the shapes of the room's furnishings - nothing more than a simple bed and a chair.

The boy inside the darkened room sat in the chair with his feet on the seat, his arms around his shins and his face on his knees. Wammy could see nothing but the badly-cut mass of black hair that nearly reached his shoulders, but his heart leapt - the position was so like how _the_ boy had sat in the police station.

He cleared his throat. "Ahem. Ah. Hello?"

The boy on the chair raised his head - not fully, just enough to look up through the observation window at Wammy with too-large eyes. Then he raised his head a little more, and tilted it slightly, curiously.

Wammy nearly couldn't speak. It was him. It was the same boy. "Y-yes," he said quickly, perhaps a little loudly. "Yes, that's my nephew! Thank goodness!"

"Bonjour, mon oncle," the boy responded, though he kept still as stone.

"Huh." The sister seemed unimpressed, but fumbled with the keys and opened the door.

Wammy licked his lips. "Gather your things," he said with as much authority as he could muster, still in English. "I'm taking you home."

"I have nothing," the boy responded in English, and the sister actually jumped in surprise.

"Ah, well, then, if you'll just come with - not even shoes?" Wammy glanced at the rain hitting the window and again at the boy's bare feet. He was only wearing plain institutional pajamas, as well.

"I don't wear shoes."

"We thought that he might be less inclined to go places he oughtn't without them," the sister said, though her formerly strict tone seemed to carry a little doubt now, as though she feared punishment for how the boy had been treated now that he'd been claimed.

"Well, find him shoes and something to wear," Wammy said as sharply as he could. "And a coat. I've certainly given you a large enough donation that you can replace them quickly."

"Oui, monsieur," the sister nodded. "If you'll come this way?"

Wammy wasn't sure if he was disgusted or grateful that only money was required to remove L from his effective prison without any further questioning.

He rather desperately wanted to talk with the boy now that he'd found him, but he'd created the story of being his uncle for a reason: if the boy truly was the detective L, and wanted to remain hidden as such, revealing his name wouldn't be appropriate. And the boy had played along beautifully, right down to responding to the name "Robert", indicating that Wammy's suppositions were likely accurate.

But the taxi ride back to the hotel was too public a place to exchange such information. While the boy did not sleep, he slipped feet from his ill-fitting shoes and perched on the car seat just as he had the chair in the room in the orphanage, and stared out the window without comment.

Still, Wammy couldn't entirely hide his delight, and when the car stopped, he rushed to open the boy's door to help him out before the cabby could. L regarded him strangely before pushing himself out of the car on his own, ignoring the offered hand.

The first entirely private moment between them was in the elevator on the way up to the room that Wammy and Roger occupied. After a moment of silence, L turned to Wammy. "I do not wish to be adopted, Quillsh."

Wammy wasn't sure if he should be surprised or not that his name was remembered, but he was able to respond immediately. "Do you want to go back to that orphanage?"

"No."

"Do you have any other family you can go to?" He asked, smiling a little. L seemed no taller than he had when they'd first met, though that might have something to do with what he'd just learned of the boy's eating habits.

"No."

"Then this is as good a solution as any, isn't it? Inventive as it is to live on your own, I don't believe that society is prepared to accept it at your age."

"It is logical, but I do not wish to be adopted."

"Ah." The inventor thought he finally understood, and he smiled more widely. "You needn't be. You may leave whenever you wish and may list us as your guardians whenever you need, but there need be nothing formal about the arrangement. I only don't want you trapped in a place like that again - It's difficult to work from such a place, isn't it?"

L considered for a moment, but finally nodded. "All right."

When they entered the suite, Ruvie's immediate response held nothing of the elation of Wammy's reaction - only resignation. "Oh my god, you found him."

L looked up at Wammy with the most innocent expression imaginable. "Is this my aunt?"

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer:<strong>Death Note (manga, animation, novels, etc.), its story, and characters are the property, copyright and trademark of Taugumi Ohba/Takeshi Obata/SHUEISHA Inc./Madhouse/DNDP/VAP, and no ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by their use in the work(s) of fan fiction presented here. This fan fiction constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This fan fiction is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	2. Elysian Fields

**Author's Note:** Cantus firmus: a pre-existing melody forming the basis of a polyphonic composition. (According to Wikipedia.)

This chapter is named for the song _Elysian Fields_ by God Is An Astronaut. It has the right bittersweet feel, and the band's work has similar sound to some of the Death Note soundtrack. This is just intended to get my take on L's history out of my head rather than be a full-bodied fic, in the same way that childhood memories tend to lose their edge, so it's quick-paced and not awfully detailed for the most part, and not quite my usual style.

* * *

><p>Cantus Firmus<p>

Part Two: Elysian Fields

In which L Lawliet briefly knows childhood.

* * *

><p>Roger Ruvie hated children. He cared for his Welsh corgis, and for books, and for the fragile preservation and careful study involved in entomology. Children had a disturbing tendency to do harm, often affectionately meant harm, to all of those things (particularly careful study, as children's chatter was supremely distracting).<p>

The boy known as L did not care for Ruvie's corgis, and barely seemed to note the cases of insects proudly displayed in Roger's study (where he had centralized them once it became clear that Quillsh would not desist in his bizarre quest for this particular child). And he seemed to have an actual respect for books, choosing and reading volumes well above his expected reading level, given his age.

Quillsh kept trying to... connect, with the boy. He seemed to have sprouted an endless capacity to indulge the child, making favorite foods (primarily cakes), attempting to talk with him, helping him establish a computer system (which took up one of the larger, if lesser used, drawing rooms of the manor house), and establishing familial rituals. One of these was reading to the boy each night, which L submitted to without complaint, though Ruvie often found him later in the library reading far thicker books.

The boy hardly ever seemed to sleep. Quillsh read to him, and tucked him in, and once Quillsh left, the boy simply got up and roamed again. He could be found in the library or in his "work room" at all hours of the night.

The logical conclusion was, of course, that L was not actually a child. Ruvie actually found it more comfortable to believe the boy to be some sort of alien or reincarnated sage rather than an adolescent human. The only real evidence that he truly was human at all was his predilection for sweets and those insufferable flashes of scathing humor.

The illogical conclusion, Ruvie later decided, had been that having children in the vicinity might be bearable after all. It was a lapse of reason that he regretted it for the rest of his life.

There were seven of them in no time, not counting L. And then twelve, and then eighteen, and the situation only became worse as time progressed. What had been a large and quiet manor was suddenly bursting with swift footsteps and shrieks of laughter and bawling and inane chatter and incessant questions about the insect collection and Wammy's inventions. There were more staff now, instructors and cooks and a woman who acted as nanny for the youngest children and who couldn't seem to get it through her head that nether Quillsh nor Roger were eligible bachelors. The children wouldn't leave the Corgies alone, and the dogs seemed to love it. Quillsh had never been happier.

L did not seem to be much in favor of the situation, though he never spoke out against it. He took to staying in his rooms or the library almost constantly, only occasionally emerging for news or a particular television show. He rarely left even for food; Wammy adjusted by taking his meals to him, though they often went untouched.

Ruvie felt heartily betrayed by the entire mess.

He later wondered if that had been what prompted him, one spring day a few years later, to remark to his friend upon something he'd noticed about L. "The other children avoid him," he said quietly. "Not simply the other way 'round. It's almost endearing. Still, it's all right, I suppose-"

"It's not all right," Quillsh said, almost guiltily agitated. For a moment there was a shade of the impatient willpower that Roger had always held in awe. "I've let this go too long. It's not only that he needs companionship; he needs peers. Have you noticed that none of the others share his discipline? You've seen what he does. Imagine the loss to the world should something happen to him, and there were no one of like mind and abilities to step up to take his place."

Ruvie's eyes narrowed. "What exactly do you propose?"

He thought, still later, that he really ought to have tried to talk Wammy out of it.

It was raining on the September day that L was introduced to his peers. Wammy brought them directly from the cars in which they arrived inside to the library, where L waited at his instruction. Wammy had located the best boys possible, in his opinion - those closest in intellect and taste, so far as he could tell - and he pulled every string he could to get them into his care. But when the day came, all he could do was stand back and watch.

It worried him, how quiet they were at first. The American boy that always seemed to be staring over peoples' heads didn't seem amenable at all, to begin with. It was the English boy, though he initially said the least, that finally bridged the gap. "You don't have Ende's Neverending Story in the original German, do you?" He asked, tapping at the spine of the book on the shelf. "I've read the translation already."

"We can get it," L responded without hesitation. "You've read C.S. Lewis?"

"Entirely."

"Caroll?"

"Likewise."

"Tolkien?"

The sandy-haired boy smiled - hesitantly, as though he'd not for some time, and couldn't believe his luck. "Parmanya, laernya!"

L did not quite smile, but his features relaxed, and his interest was clear. "You've studied Quenya."

The brown-haired American boy did not smile. "I haven't."

L hopped from his perch on one of the alcove's chairs and retrieved a volume at the end of the shelf, handing it delicately to the brunet without asking if he wanted it. "Start here."

The relationship between the three rapidly became, to all appearances, all that Wammy had hoped. They had separate rooms, but rarely occupied more than one. The interests of one soon became the interests of all three, to the best of their abilities - the brown-haired boy did not take to the British boy's love of tennis the way L did, neither did they quite share the brunet's apparent interest in biology (particularly dissection), but they all seemed to make the effort for each others' sakes. They rarely referred to each other by any names, being so often in each others' presence. When they did, L had no reason to suspect anything of the use of their initials "A" and "B". Rather than his own initial, B referred to L as Lawli - short for lollipop, B said, as L so often had one, drawling the name in his fading American accent. Lawful Good, A joked. All based on the false name L had given them originally, of course, but something in the way B said it sent a chill down L's spine, and he suspected that somehow B already _knew_.

L knew the day that A figured it out, at least. Heru Tengwa, A named him in Tolkien's Elvish language. Lord Letter. Though he easily deciphered the meaning, B's lack of reaction only reinforced L's suspicion that B already knew his true alias.

As soon as he knew the thirty-first of October to be L's birthday, B suggested that he and A literally become L as their Halloween costumes. A went along with it, and they dyed their hair black, acquiring the dye from the poor nursemaid and making a terrible mess cutting their hair with sewing shears before they were caught. L thought it hilarious, and they all shared his clothing, and he insisted that they celebrate actual Halloween rather than his birthday, in honor of it being so much more popular a holiday in B's homeland than in England. B only consented after L had properly blown out candles on his cake and accepted their gifts - chocolates from a store in town, from both of them, though A's assortment was milk and B's dark.

In what B insisted was proper Halloween fashion, the three of them - appearing nearly identical - slipped away from the estate in the evening, and B showed off various pranks associated with the holiday. At the third report of an egged house the local police began to look for the boys, but by that time, they were on their way back to the House. There was a drunken man on a side street that attracted B's attention, and they followed him for a few blocks at B's insistence that they might prank him, but turned back when they saw a police car down another street.

In the morning, the man was found dead in a gutter, having died of natural causes during the cold night.

Wammy had an indoor sports facility built in what had once been a barn on the property, and the children made much use of it during the colder months. A in particular could often be found practicing his tennis there. He said that it was good stress relief. L did not understand what might cause A so much stress.

He didn't know. Wammy never quite told A and B to keep their rigorous education a secret; he had only to hint that L had already gone through such, and they applied themselves without complaint. B in particular worked ferociously, as though he could catch up to L's level of education.

On Guy Fawkes Night, after the party and the bonfire and town fireworks, they attempted to set off home-made fireworks from the roof of the House. Disaster was averted thanks to A having brought along a fire extinguisher.

Christmas was the first that L really seemed to enjoy for the most part, much to Wammy's relief. With his more than adequate funding thanks to his grasp of the stock market, L made his usual contribution to the House, but also got an expensive calculator for A (who had been having a little difficulty with maths) and a theatrical makeup kit for B, who seemed to have an increasing taste for disguises, if his mimicry of L was any indication. L did not understand why A seemed crestfallen, giving L an array of handmade cookies; L thought that A was on his way to becoming a brilliant dessert chef, and that suited him perfectly. B was delighted with his gift and spent a few hours matching his complexion to L's, and L seemed perfectly happy with B's gift of further chocolates (the birthday assortment having gone over so well).

B celebrated his birthday in January with a horror movie marathon. L and A attempted to bake B's cake and other desserts (he seemed to like them nearly as much as L) as a gift. A procured for B replacement makeup for what he'd already used up from the kit L had given him for Christmas; B had continued to try to maintain the illusion of L's complexion on his slightly darker skin. L gave B a nicely bound boxed set of the Lord of the Rings in hardback, so that he needn't worry about whether they were in the library or not whenever he might want to read them.

The months passed. At one point a difficult assassination case came to L's attention and he sequestered himself for nearly three weeks. B checked up on his Lawli regularly and insisted on being the one to take him his food. A seemed to turn in on himself, giving L his space, and spent his free time practicing tennis and secluded in his room, reading. When L finished the case, he took to playing tennis against A, and this seemed to cheer the other boy considerably. B didn't play, but watched, increasingly adopting L's tendency to sit crouched and orally fixate on his fingers.

Both B and A continued to dye their hair black and style it (to use the term loosely) to match L's. A suggested that they wear different colors of shirts to differentiate between them so that no one might mistake one for the other (unless, of course, they wished it so). B seemed to be offended, but took to wearing black, while A wore gray and L continued to wear white. None of them seemed inclined to vary their wardrobes more than that. ("At least it still makes the laundry a little easier," Wammy reassured Ruvie.)

Between A's struggling with school work and busy tennis schedule as he began to compete, he began to have little time to spare, and often fell asleep inconveniently. B bristled when L tried to ensure quiet so that A could rest. L didn't seem to need to rest so much, and B was nearly as adept at going without sleep; why should allowances be made for anyone who hadn't the knack?

As the weather turned warm again, they explored the estate grounds, always as a team. There were several outbuildings yet to be renovated that were treasure troves of bits of ancient debris, from a bumpy bottle that had once held poison to a fragmented and tarnished silver-backed hand mirror. For a little while they considered archaeology, before venturing into the woods to find the abandoned church and cemetery that housed the people to whom these objects may have once belonged. After several afternoons of clearing brush from tombstones, the breeze humming softly in the bell that still hung in the dilapidated church tower, B finally found a way into the locked building through a broken window. The building itself was not structurally sound - all fallen roof and brambles and overturned pews inside - so they never worked up the courage to venture far within before Wammy discovered their activities and shooed them away from the dangerous place.

For A's birthday in June, the boys went camping, though A fretted about missing his practice. L and B both insisted that he relax and not worry about it. Wammy stayed in a cabin, but the boys trekked out into the minor wilderness and camped with a pop-up tent in a grassy area next to a pond. B assured them that this would have resulted in their being eaten alive by mosquitos in America.

After experimenting with traditional camp cooking using their small fire, and managing to accidentally fling a burning marshmallow into the pond, they lay down on a blanket and enjoyed the clear, starry sky away from the light pollution to which they were accustomed. L and A inspected a few of the glow worms perched in the reeds; B crushed several to paint their phosphorescence on his skin.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" L asked, directing the question toward A. "Tennis champion?"

"That's not much of a career," A said, turning his hand over and over as a glow worm crawled along it. "A writer, I think. Or a chef. I don't quite know."

"Something where you don't need maths," B pointed out, his tone close to derision. His American accent had almost completely disappeared, even his word choice adjusted to the point that he blended in with his companions.

"Nothing wrong with that." L shrugged, missing the look that A gave him as he turned his head to B and wrinkled his nose at the slightly older boy's glowing war-paint. "You?"

"The best," B answered confidently.

"The best at what?"

"Does it matter?" B smirked, gazing at the stars and reaching up as though he could catch them in his grasp. "What about you, then, Lawli? What do you want to be when you grow up?"

L was silent for long enough that both A and B turned their heads to look at him. He stared at the sky, chewing thoughtfully on his thumbnail (which tasted a bit like burnt marshmallow at the moment). He finally reached a decision. "I'd like to never be alone."

B snorted. "You stole that line from _Young Sherlock Holmes_."

"That doesn't mean that I don't mean it." L lay his hands on his torso, carefully neutral, looking to neither of his companions. "I've been alone. This is better."

"Seconded," B said quickly, before A could say anything. A snapped his mouth shut and didn't respond.

One side of L's mouth - the side facing B - twisted in a lopsided smile. "I suppose it wasn't fair of me to ask the question at all when I don't know the answer myself."

L's birthday gift to A was a trip to see the finals at Wimbledon, but while there, he presented A with a finely bound blank book and pen. B's gift to A was new batteries for his calculator.

The three of them came to rarely all share a room; usually B stayed with L alone, given how A needed his rest. There were, increasingly, times during which A would simply lock himself in his room; it had been going on since April, and increased in frequency as time wore on.

During the Junior Tennis Championships in August, the pressure of competition wore particularly badly on A. He was one of the two finalists, but when his last match came, he hid in the locker room. L and B found him crying and unable to stop.

Rather than let him simply forfeit the match when he'd come so far, L had B help him quickly disguise himself, and while B tended to their ailing friend, took A's place. Unexpectedly, he won the match. If anyone thought that A - Andrew MacAllister, according to the name he'd been using - seemed a bit pale during the match, this was easily explained by how ill he seemed to be afterward.

A never played tennis again. It took L until B pointed it out to understand that in trying to help A, he'd terribly hurt the other boy. L, who had never competed before, had won the match that A had worked so hard to reach. That L had learned all he knew of the sport from A didn't seem to matter.

Wammy tried to cheer and relax A by taking them on another camping trip later in the month. This time, it rained often, and while B didn't seem to mind, A and L stayed in the cabin for the most part - in close proximity but usually without communicating, reading or (in A's case) sleeping instead. On the two clear days that week, they wandered the area, slipping through a fence into a quarry nearby to explore a cave. Deep inside, B's flashlight went out, and A suffered another panic attack, this time coming close to ceasing to be able to breathe. L and B dragged him back, feeling their way, and it was by luck that L's memory of their path held true enough that they escaped. As A had calmed by the time they reached the cabin again, none of the boys told Wammy of the incident.

That night, Wammy picked up B's torch to use, and it functioned perfectly.

B found a decaying deer carcass in the quarry and visited it often that week, even in the rain. Near the end, L noticed a scent about B, and that B's arms seemed to have been scrubbed before his return - the makeup that usually stained him pale was missing.

L began to feel wary of talking to B, and wanted to talk to A about it, but A remained distant.

A locked himself away in his room more and more often. Sometimes he claimed need to study, sometimes he said he wasn't feeling well, and sometimes he made no excuse. He collapsed one evening; after an overnight in the hospital, it was declared that he'd developed asthma due to an opportunistic infection that had attacked his stressed system. It was suggested that he take the semester off from studies to better recover and adjust, but A refused, expressing his determination to keep up with his education. L wondered why A was so desperate to push himself even in the subjects he didn't seem given to, but didn't get the chance to talk to A about it.

In September, B began to pay close attention to one of the young women near his age at the House - a girl named Grace. He brought her small things - flowers, feathers, dragonfly wings - small things to keep her attention - and spent much of his time with her. For about a week, he seemed suddenly obsessed with staying close to her. The end of the matter was when the girl slipped and fell down the main staircase in the House during class change, breaking her neck. B stood at the railing near the top of the stairs and watched.

L did not attend classes with the others and was in his work room at the time, but later had Wammy let him view the security video of the incident. It had been a clear accident, but as B had watched, he'd been faintly smiling.

A few days later, after Grace's funeral, L thought he saw A crossing the lawn in the evening. It occurred to him that A might be secretly leaving his room to go to some secret sanctuary - the abandoned church, perhaps, from his apparent heading. L did not pursue his suspicions. A deserved whatever peace he needed.

For L's birthday, B lavished him with gifts of chocolates. Only B still kept up the homage of dying his hair and painting his skin to look more like L; A was letting his natural blond hair appear again, when L briefly saw him. L found a gift from A in his room that night - the pen and blank book, resting unwrapped on his bed, still unused.

L didn't know how to communicate with A after that, but he spent much time considering what he might say. He avoided A so that he might not make the other boy uncomfortable. After finals in December would be a good time to try to talk, L thought. Best not to disturb A while he needed to be studying.

Throughout November, B was the only person in the House that seemed to understand L's confusion and concern, and B was sympathetic even though he didn't know what to do either, or at least seemed so. It was difficult to remember that B sometimes did odd or disturbing things when he was the closest companion that L had. The only one L had left, really. It didn't matter that everyone else avoided and whispered about B now, Wammy and Ruvie practically included. Everyone tended to avoid L as well, so it wasn't as though avoidance was actually an indicator of anything.

In December, even that dubious comfort was lost.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Endnote:<strong> Good grief do I not speak Quenya. Having read about its grammar with given translation, the first phrase would be "My book, my song!", and the second "Lord Letter", with "Letter" in the sense of character rather than a written document.

**Disclaimer: **Death Note (manga, animation, novels, etc.), its story, and characters are the property, copyright and trademark of Taugumi Ohba/Takeshi Obata/SHUEISHA Inc./Madhouse/DNDP/VAP, and no ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by their use in the work(s) of fan fiction presented here. This fan fiction constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This fan fiction is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	3. Arcadia

**Author's Note:** Cantus firmus: a pre-existing melody forming the basis of a polyphonic composition. (According to Wikipedia.)

This chapter is named for the song "Arcadia" by Yoko Kanno, from the _Vision of Escaflowne_ anime soundtracks. Arcadia is defined as (among other things) "a region or scene of simple pleasure and quiet," according to Merriam-Webster.

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><p>Cantus Firmus<p>

Part Three: Arcadia

In which brief childhood is lost.

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><p>Final exams came and went, and L barely noticed; he was thoroughly engrossed in a series of investigations and spent most of the first three weeks of the month in the mainland Europe.<p>

Upon his return, he discovered that A hadn't even attended any of his exams. He'd ceased to attend classes entirely, and his whereabouts were often unknown.

L considered the situation carefully, and researched in several different books pertaining to successful communication from the library, and more than once he placed himself where he was certain that A would pass him, that he might strike up conversation. Each time, he left before A passed, once so near to meeting that he barely turned the corner before A could see him.

B seemed to want to be constantly in L's presence once he returned, and while he hung back and didn't interfere, he seemed to have no interest in trying to communicate with A. L wondered what exactly had passed between them in his absence, other than B's excellent test scores.

As the days passed toward Christmas there was an inevitable increase in tension throughout the estate - both the expectation of the children and the stress of the adults. Snow settled over the world, thick and deceptive, rounding edges and giving a strange appearance of warmth. The lawns of the estate were quickly trampled during the brief, relatively mild days into a mass of snowmen and snow angels and sledding trails and forts and paths.

L watched, and identified the path that A took when he crept from his room oblivious to the drop in temperature after dark. He was definitely going to the abandoned church on a frequent basis. Sometimes, when L saw him, he seemed to be carrying a backpack - probably with supplies to create a secluded lair, L thought.

On Christmas Eve, L did not sleep. Often this would have been due to a case, or study, or a desire for solitude on L's part, but the entire building seemed to be full of whispers, giggles, and gibbering things going bump in the night as some of the more ambitious children attempted to lay in wait for the appearance of Father Christmas, some going so far as to set traps. There seemed rather less of it this year than usual, possibly owing to B's insistence on explaining the lore of the Krampus at length to many of the younger children. But it was still entirely noticeable, as were the heavier footfalls of Wammy (likely in costume) and some of the other staff disarming traps and shooing children to their rooms.

Christmas day arrived like the breaking of a dam, a sudden flood of shrieks of joy and excitement roaring through the manor. As was his usual, L delayed leaving his room until some of the noise had died down and moved away from the common rooms, and sat with B for much of the day sharing the chocolates they'd gotten each other - there was nothing from A for either of them - and feasting on cookies and cakes. As the hours wore on, the scents from the kitchen that permeated the house only became more and more enticing, at least to those with a less acute sweet tooth.

The sky was beginning to turn rosy with early December sunset and Christmas dinner was fast approaching when L finally saw A. He'd noticed throughout the day that A's gifts lay untouched under the tree - had even caught himself checking to see if they'd been claimed yet. But when he glimpsed A, it was not catching sight of the other boy finally retrieving his gifts, nor of him slinking past to find his place in the dining hall.

It was through the window, as A trudged through falling snow away from the house.

"Come on," L said to B, abruptly deciding his course of action. He got up from his armchair without looking to see if B was following - B always followed. "No better time to talk to him."

"I think he wants to be left alone," B grumbled, and L thought he understood; B was angry with A and felt abandoned, too.

"I'm not going to make him do anything." L reached the entryway and jammed his feet into a pair of boots from his cubby. "I just want to talk to him." He pulled a coat from a rack without checking to see whose it was. It didn't matter; all it had to do was function.

"We'll miss the crackers," B whined.

"I'll get us some more if we do." That seemed to be enough for B; sharing personal Christmas crackers was even better.

By the time they were outside, A had disappeared into the woods, but they easily followed his trail. He seemed to have trampled all around the abandoned church, but L recognized that it was camouflage, and after a little searching they found the spot where the boards over a broken window had been loosened and could be rotated out of the way.

There was still enough light to see inside the treacherous building, and L's fogging breath was loud in his ears as he moved between the pews. The coat he'd taken was too large, and hung loosely from him, catching on broken wood and exposed nails. "A?"

There was a creak and a trickle of dust floated down from above. "The belfry," B exclaimed - he seemed a little excited, strangely, as though by the chase. It was L that moved first for the entry chamber of the building, where a built-in ladder had stretched up into the bell tower.

L passed through the archway and took in that much of the ladder had been repaired with new boards, and just as his gaze began to travel upward, a voice from above shouted down to him. "Go away!"

He turned, looking up, and saw A. The other boy stood on a ledge of broken floor next to the bell, up beyond the rafters of the peaked roof of the rest of the building, the last of the daylight making him seem bright in the gloom. It took L a moment to comprehend the arrangement of rope around the other. "A, what are you -"

"It's your fault!" A was not sobbing, but his face looked as though he had been. "I never wanted any of this! As if I could ever be anything like you - you can't even stop rubbing it in!"

"Rubbing - A what are you even talking about?!" L reached for the ladder; he was cold and shaking and his fingers had difficulty closing over the rung he grasped. "Just stay there -"

But A's face twisted, lip curling, more disdain than L had thought him capable of visible in his stance alone. "You don't get to take this away from me too," he said, so low that L almost couldn't hear it.

And he was in the air, arms wide, eyes closed, falling. And for a split second stopped in mid-air. There seemed to be a noticeable lag between his abrupt halt and the awful snap of his neck, and all L could see was the rope around his friend's throat.

The snap was only a prelude to the cracking of wood - A had lashed the rope to the ancient cross-beam holding the bell, and the sudden strain was far too much for the rotting wood. It creaked and broke and with a horrific din as the bell twisted and crashed to break other support beams with its impact, the entire tower began to fall.

L barely felt it when B grasped his arm and pulled, physically dragging them back into the building proper before they both fell in the billowing unbreathable dust and din.

He felt detached, immediately after the chaos. There was nothing to be done of course. L was shocked at his own instinct to go forward and try to look for A's body as though there were some hope that he were still alive despite the obviousness of the situation. But he made no move, only curled on his side staring, until he became aware of B tugging on his arm to help him rise and warning of the instability of the building. By that point there was shouting outside; the collapse of the belfry and the final toll of the bell could not go unnoticed, and Wammy had had the presence of mind to check which students were missing almost immediately.

There was a long haze of formalities, procedures that L had often seen and utilized but in which he had never participated. Eventually the questions were exhausted and the statements were given, and L returned to his room, refusing Wammy's concerned hovering.

He cleaned himself slowly in a hot shower, and dressed as though for bed, but only huddled in a comfortable corner of his darkened room with his thumb between his lips and did not close his eyes.

At some point, hours later, there was a sound at the locked door of his room. Not a knock, but a clicking, a scratching - and then the lock gave a small, sharp sound, and the door opened only wide enough for a person to enter. L watched silently as B slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind himself.

After the electric glow in the hallway it took a few moments for their eyes to adjust. When L could see by the cold, diffuse moonlight from the window again, B was staring toward the crisp, empty bed.

Before B could make a sound, L whispered, "Here."

B's head jerked toward L in shock, and what L thought was relief flowed over his face. The slightly older boy made a start toward him, then turned and spent a moment tugging the comforter from the bed.

Then B crouched next to his idol and settled into as near the same position as possible, leaning against him a little, and draped the comforter over the both of them, and neither said a word.

And still L did not sleep.

The next day was disturbingly, excruciatingly quiet. It was Boxing Day; there should still have been revelry and children running through the halls with new toys. Instead, any such sounds were muffled by doors with children kept in their rooms or confined to the larger rooms used for classes.

L remained in his room, and B stayed by his side, leaving only to retrieve hot tea and desserts. B said little, and L daid less. Wammy came to them; L declined his offer of speaking to a counselor (for now, he added, to assuage the man) and B followed suit. And in L's room it fell quiet again, as hushed as the snow-blanketed world outside.

L would likely have remained indefinitely in his corner, wrapped up in the comforter, had B not eventually - long after nightfall - prodded and cajoled until he convinced L to lie down on the bed. Once B had rearranged the quilt again, he crawled in as well.

It was a narrow bed; in order for both to fit, B huddled quite close to L. When L tensed uncomfortably and made to leave the bed again, the other boy lay his hand on his arm, pleading, miserable. "Doesn't it feel better than being alone?"

The day after that, sound began to return to Wammy's House, low but rising like a tide. But L remained silent, sleeping warm and comforted under B's arm.

There were times, L had found, when the world simply became so troubling that it seemed that the only thing to do was sleep. It seemed an indulgence in such times; he felt that sleep dulled his perception of the complicated and painful threads of reality, and he woke with less awareness of their ends. But there were occasions in which he could not endure and could find no other refuge. And though he seemed less inclined to such stillness, B was whole-heartedly willing to remain with him. He stayed in close contact, nearly always touching, waking L to insist that he care for himself and often lying down with him.

Within days the shock began to fade, and L noticed that now B smiled more often than L had known him to before. L appreciated it all the more - after all, B was the only other to have heard A's last words, though he hadn't been the subject. He was the one closest to understanding what the experience had been for L, and he didn't push or demand that it be discussed. He understood and he was concerned for L as no one else was, to L's perception.

L began to not simply tolerate B's closeness in lying with him, but to want it. To be understood and be able to share contact seemed quite a powerful thing.

It wasn't more than a few days after, not even New Year's yet, when the weather warmed enough that it was cold rain rather than snow that fell. L had fallen asleep with B's arm over him again, the other boy pressed close against him.

Long into the night, L woke to movement, and B's breath on the back of his neck, and B's arm tight around him. He tensed and cried out and B only held tighter and spoke quickly and possessively because they were made to be together, L knew, he couldn't help but know, they were unlike everyone else and only they could understand each other and -

L broke free and tumbled from the bed, sparing one terrified glance toward B reaching and calling for him from the bed before running.

Neither had understood a thing.

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>Death Note (manga, animation, novels, etc.), its story, and characters are the property, copyright and trademark of Taugumi Ohba/Takeshi Obata/SHUEISHA Inc./Madhouse/DNDP/VAP, and no ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by their use in the work(s) of fan fiction presented here. This fan fiction constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This fan fiction is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


End file.
